


You Are Not You, and You Are Not Your Own

by angededesespoir



Series: Reaper76 Week [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Homicidal Thoughts, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Other, Paranoia mention, brain-washing, dissociation mention, hospital mention, murder of random unknown people implied, nausea mention, spider metaphor, welcome to the land of suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9564488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angededesespoir/pseuds/angededesespoir
Summary: In which a Mission goes horribly wrong, and the consequences are lasting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _For **Day 1- “How We Were”- History/Decay**._
> 
>  
> 
> _.....Listen, I’m sorry in advance. I’ve had an idea for awhile now. And that idea was that maybe Talon started exerting some control over Gabe before the fall, shaping him over time, manipulating him, brain-washing him to a degree.._
> 
> _And there’s always that part of him that resists, that hangs on. But it gets harder to cling to over time. Gets drowned out by everything else. Gets lost in the sea of inner turmoil._
> 
> _Anyway- *Coughs* I borrowed a quote and a scene from the “[Old Soldiers](https://comic.playoverwatch.com/en-us/ana-old-soldiers)” comic._
> 
> _Now on with the show._
> 
> _(Can also be read on[Tumblr](http://angededesespoir.tumblr.com/post/156771680670/you-are-not-you-and-you-are-not-your-own).)_

It’s one of those missions where anything that can go wrong, does go wrong.

When he wakes up, he finds himself in a hospital bed, monitors working steadily, body stiff and aching.  After a second, he registers Jack’s presence.  

The man’s in an equally uncomfortable looking chair, hands clutching onto Gabe’s right hand, pressing it to his lips.  He can feel the quiver, the warm wetness that keeps falling onto his skin.  The man’s body shudders, but the sound remains suppressed.

It’s like he’s watching a silent film.  Only the actions aren’t exaggerated.  And there’s that annoying beeping in the background.  

It’s surreal.  He hasn’t seen him cry in so long.

_His heart hurts. He needs him to stop._

He gathers the energy, the strength, to squeeze his hand. Jack’s head jerks up, startled.

“...Gabe?  Gabe!  Thank God!”  


He’s surging forward, an assault of kisses on a wounded man.

And it’s exactly like those old movies they used to watch with Ana and Reinhardt.  

It’s like the world is faded, and Jack is rambling, but he can’t make out one word.

\--

Things begin to change after that mission.  He doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand what’s happening.

At first it concerns him.

He’s snapping more than usual.  Not even over big issues, but petty things.  He notices a growing unease in some of the members, a nervous look in their eyes.

After awhile, Jesse works up the courage, tries to approach him.  (He’s a tough kid, but Gabriel can see through him, see his worry.   _Shut it down.  Hide. **Conceal.**_ )  Gabe brushes him off, shuts the door of his office in the young man’s face.

He sits, but doesn't move to attend to the growing piles of paperwork that litter his desk.

  


He can still see the blood, still _feel_ it.

His fingers flex and then straighten- a repeated routine, a distraction that can’t help anything _because it’s still there, **still in his hand**._

He can’t remember- not when he leaves or what exactly occurs when he does.  He just remembers entering the base, the ghost of a fragment of memory at the edge of his mind, clinging to his skin, infecting him slowly.

  


It’s not just the anger that’s arisen.  It’s the fear.

Fear of what he’s capable of, fear of changes he no longer has control over ( _never did- always, always, someone above him, calling the shots, manipulating him- **nothing more than someone’s little experiment**_ ).  There’s that unexplainable sense.   That there’s someone there.   Waiting. Watching.

Who can he turn to?   _Jack, Jack, Jack._   **No one.**  

_No one is to be trusted._

He does not answer when the string of memorized numbers and coded contact name flashes bright on his phone, unique tune blaring.  He ignores the long-established pattern of knocks that come later on his door.

He discards the evidence of his sins.

_No one can know._

\--

He cannot pinpoint when it happened.  

He doesn’t question it. (It's hard to these days.)

He lets the past - once thought resolved - bubble up.  

At some point, a switch was flicked without his knowing, going against his every desire.  

Instead of craving his husband’s kisses, he feels like snapping his neck.  He has never felt angrier than in the moments he has to spend in the same room as the man.

And to think, there was once a time when he fought for each precious second of his time.

Now his hands are curled into fists, voice raised, a terrible violence writhing within him, begging to be unleashed.

He oversteps his ground, and Morrison, painfully, stands his. 

And then he’s storming out.

Because if he doesn’t, he knows when he comes to in his room, he’ll be drenched in all too familiar blood.

He ignores the calls later.  It’s routine now.  

He feeds the distance.  He lets it fuel his anger.

_It’s better this way.  Better to dispel the illusion._

He lets it consume him.

\--

When he comes to, there is nothing but pain and anger.  They’re the only stable constant he can remember.  Everything else feels fleeting.

Like his body, he quickly discovers.

There’s the hideous smell of sweet rot, and between that and the dizziness of disorientation, the nausea blossoms.  He feels too much, and nothing at all.  Like he’s trapped inside a blender turned to the highest setting.  But also like he’s nothing more than wind.  

He wants it to stop.  It’s too much.   _Too much._

There’s the pain.  And the anger.

And then there’s _him_.

Messy blond hair and eyes shifting from soft sea to violent storm.   _(He’s drowning either way.  They both are.)_

He cradles the image in his mind.

_He wants to tear him apart._

He tries to breathe, to settle.

_He wants him to pay._

It hurts, but the room is spinning less now.  He thinks he can feel ground beneath him.

_**He’s** back._

He lets nothingness consume him.

_He doesn’t exist._

It’s everything.  

 _It’s the only thing._

\--

He’s the spider and the Soldier is the prey caught in his web.

 _How long he has hungered.  How hard he has worked, pulling the strings of this delicate trap._

He sweeps in, ashes coalescing into resemblance of life, of figment of past creation., 

There’s the shot- ear-splitting.  

And then he’s standing over the shaking form.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth.

_Such is the nature of revenge._

He taunts.

_He should be dead.  He should be in shambles._

He doesn’t know.

_He should be like me._

He never did.

_He should suffer.  (I should spare him.)  He **will** pay. _

Tactics is his specialty.  But even the best-laid plans don’t always work out.

_Sometimes the prey breaks free.  Sometimes the web is damaged.  .....Sometimes the bird eats the spider._

The dart almost makes contact.

_Why?  Why chose him?  (I would, I would’ve...)_

There’s so many familiar things.  But above all is the anger.

_Don’t trust him.  He’ll hurt you.  (He hurt me.  He’s the cause.)_

Action.  Anger to fuel necessary action.

_He knows.  He has to know._

There are too many ghosts in this world.

_He has to remember.  He has to know he’s to blame._

He is one of them.

_He doesn’t deserve to live.  (He doesn’t deserve to die.)_

There is horror in her eyes.

 _This is what fate looks like.  This is the face of betrayal._

It’s like he’s back at square one.  It hurts.  It hurts so much.

_You are to blame._

There’s the anger.  And the pain.  And the fear.

_You should know by now._

And then there’s him.

_There’s no such thing as saints._

“They left you to die.  They left me to suffer...Never forget that.”  


_And it’s time you paid for your sins._

He is nothing.  That’s what they wanted.

_Acknowledge what you’ve done._

He leaves.  Like he’s storming out of that cold office.  (Like he’s spinning around, grabbing him, hauling the bleeding form away from the field.  Protect.   _Protect._ **_Protect._** )

_A monster replaces man; a soldier replaces a puppet._

There is too much, and too little.

_He can forget, but you will **always** remember._

In the end, you are nothing, and you belong to no one.  

_(Or, that’s what you tell yourself, at least.)_

**Author's Note:**

> _I'll probably expand on the idea more at a later time, because there's a lot that I didn't have the time and energy to address and explore. But, for now, I have like 5 million ship weeks that I need to focus on. :P_


End file.
